


Cheetahs Never Win

by x_los



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1550552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>B_E kinkmeme prompt: “Taming of the Cheetah!Master. Make one of the Doctors get him off that doomed planet!”. (a tidied old kinkmeme drabble: original here: <a href="http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/13938.html?thread=243570#t243570">http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/13938.html?thread=243570#t243570</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheetahs Never Win

**Author's Note:**

> Title: "Cheetahs Never Win"  
> Author: [](http://x-los.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://x-los.livejournal.com/)**x_los**  
>  Rating: NC-17  
> Pairing: Eight/Cheetah!Master  
> Summary: B_E kinkmeme prompt: “Taming of the Cheetah!Master. Make one of the Doctors get him off that doomed planet!”. (a tidied old kinkmeme drabble: original here: <http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/13938.html?thread=243570#t243570>)  
> Beta: [](http://aralias.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://aralias.livejournal.com/)**aralias**
> 
> ***

Nearly asleep, the Doctor listened to the long, almost patient scraaaaape of sharp claws on his wooden bedroom door, sighed, and, after a moment’s deliberation, thunked his head against the headboard. He knew he should check himself into an appropriate facility, or go and find a disused chalkboard somewhere in the TARDIS and write “I will not experience sympathy for the Master” until is stuck--but it just hadn’t made _sense_. What was the Master doing on Skaro, apparently whole, hale and getting executed? The last time the Doctor had seen him, he had been significantly fangier, and more interested in that whole ‘fight like animals/die like animals’ scene than in running reconnaissance missions for Gallifrey. Someone had _fixed_ him (as he’d certainly been too far gone to fix himself). The Doctor had a good, or rather a _bad_ idea as to who that someone might have been.

This was, he reminded himself, uncannily reminiscent of the time he’d just _had_ to know why the Master had been working with the Daleks of all creatures. The Doctor had ended up accidentally-on-purpose leading the Master safely back to his own TARDIS with just enough plausible deniability to stay in the black. Or perhaps it was more like the time he’d lifted the Master from Rassilon’s Foul Prison as thanks for the Master’s having actually come to save him in the Death Zone, just like he’d said. To the Doctor’s chagrin, the ‘Foul Prison’ had turned out to be significantly less agonizing than the name might have implied. Really ‘Rassilon’s Comfortable If Somewhat Demeaning Hospice Care For the Clinically Egomaniacal’ would have been a more apropos name. Still, it was the thought that counted--wasn’t it?

“Doctor,” the Master called from outside the door--hardly for the first time. “You can’t ignore me, you know.” The Doctor rolled his eyes.

“Can’t I? Then just what do you think I’ve been doing for the last hour?” he called back, immediately regretting having responded at all.

The Master chuckled, pleased to have gotten the Doctor’s attention at last. “Trying unsuccessfully to sleep, I imagine,” he purred.

The Doctor swallowed. This was nothing, he assured himself. The Master ‘purred’ all the time. The fact that the normal gravel-rolled-in-velvet quality of his always-pleasant voice had been pushed to a positively sinful level was certainly _annoying_ , but really none of the Doctor’s concern. They had bigger fish to fry, even if at the moment the Master might have prefered to eat them raw. The point was that the Doctor was, after all, a _doctor_. The Master was his patient. Tracking the Master had taken some doing, and the Doctor was exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, that he was going to bloody sleep. Then, in the morning, they could get a good, fresh start on curing the Master of the Cheetah virus.

He’d tranquilized the Master in order to bring him on board, and had left him comfortably restrained (not to mention still heavily drugged) in the medical lab. The Doctor had set the entire TARDIS on isomorphic, just in case. It had seemed, after all, impossible for the Master to wake up, escape, and muster the presence of mind to wreck technologically sophisticated havoc in his present condition. But the Doctor was fairly used to the Master managing impossible things, and so he’d been cautious.

Unfortunately Cheetah mutation (with an option on the Traken influence) had altered the Master’s physiology enough that his body was far from Gallifreyan standard-issue. The Master had regained consciousness after about two hours. He’d surprised the Doctor in the console room (the Doctor didn’t even like to think about how long the Master had stalked him and lain in wait before pouncing). The Doctor had been forced to leg it, and the Master had given hot pursuit. The Doctor had woven through corridors, chucking furniture over as he passed to create obstacles. He’d managed to get to his bedroom and lock the door behind him. The Master had turned up a scant minute later, and continued to cheerfully ignore all the chemical signals to sleep that inundated his body. If that catch-all cocktail didn’t work, honestly the Doctor didn’t know what to give him.

For the past hour, he’d been operating on the theory that if he ignored the Master, the Master would sulk off, and hopefully go away and get some sleep himself. Confronting the other Time Lord would be the worst way to handle the situation. He’d learned in his sixth regeneration how very much this version of the Master thrived on negative attention.

“Doctor,” the Master tried again, “I’m very hungry. I’ve not hunted in far too long. Are you simply going to let me starve? I hardly think you have the stomach for such cruelty.”

“Call the RSPCA. Anyway, you could stand to skip a few meals,” the Doctor shot back before he could stop himself, wincing at his persistent inability to keep his mouth shut. He could practically hear the smirk in the Master’s response.

“How very petty of you Doctor. You’re willing to let me pass the night in uncomfortable hunger, simply because you’ve settled in?”

Oh _unfair_. It felt, disgustingly, like a vaguely decent point. The Doctor could feel his own position weakening. He knew this was a perfect example of the exact same soft-headedness that had prompted him to seek out and help the Master in the first place, but he just couldn’t stop himself. Resisting the urge to bring along one of his pillows and use it to thwack his houseguest over the head, the Doctor hauled himself out of bed. He took his dressing gown off the hook on the back of the door and tied it around himself, over his purple silk pyjamas.

He then carefully eased his way out of the door, keeping his body tight to the frame, so that the Master couldn’t force his way in while the Doctor maneuvered. The Master in his bedroom could not end well. At best the man would rouse from his animalistic state enough to mock the Doctor’s bedside reading material (Courtmaster Cruel comics Izzy had given him, at the moment), and at worst he would make a pest of himself and take over the Doctor’s bolt hole. There were other possible consequences, but the Doctor very deliberately did not consider them.

He observed the Master warily. The other man was down to a waistcoat and shirtsleeves. It was by no means a bad look for him, though the Doctor also noted that he was carrying a bit more weight than he used to. The Master had somehow managed to gain about a stone, hunting like that in the jungle, concerned with food in a way he’d never even considered being as a ‘pure’ citadel-bred Time Lord. Typical. Anyone else of their background would probably have starved out there in the wild. The Master, on the other hand, had apparently been _good_ at keeping himself fed.

The Master’s smile was so predatory the Doctor imagined that he could see blood slicked across the canines.

“The kitchen’s the way,” the Doctor began shortly, taking a step down the hall. The Master threw an arm against the wall to block his progress.

The Doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me,” he began.

“My dear Doctor, I know precisely where the kitchen is.” The Master threw his other arm up on the Doctor’s left side, effectively boxing him in. “I can smell it, Doctor.” He inhaled deeply. The Doctor watched, disturbed and fascinated. “Everything in it. Apples, bread, tea leaves— _they_ are almost overpowering in their fragrance, though I suppose it mustn’t bother you. The smell of the meat is especially intoxicating. Lamb, beef, a few more exotic animals—all stocked in great quantities. It’s as if you’re operating a charnel house. You _have_ prepared for this, Doctor. I suppose you intend to detain me here for some time?”

“Until I’ve cured you,” the Doctor said steadily, trying to remain unperturbed by the Master’s posture--which was probably just meant to unnerve him. “Well, if you know where the kitchen is, and if your nose is giving you an admirably complete inventory, I don’t see why you needed to disturb my beauty sleep.”

The Master chuckled at his naïveté. “Eating isn’t the only biological imperative.” He took that one fatal step closer and licked across the Doctor’s slightly open, indignant mouth. “Or perhaps I just wanted something I couldn’t have found in your kitchen?”

“Don’t--” the Doctor tried to back up into the wall, eyes flaring. “Absolutely not. As if coming to rescue you wasn’t bad enough!” he continued in a slightly lower voice, as if to himself.

The Master paused. He inhaled carefully, as if testing the bouquet of the air. “You know Doctor, I’ve come to highly value these enhanced perceptual senses. Anyone might notice your wide eyes, and anyone truly looking might see--there, the very slightest flush. But I can hear your hearts beating faster than they should, and I can smell—mm. You’re afraid of this, Doctor.” The Master’s tone was that of a man observing a marvel. He pushed his hands under the Doctor’s robe and slid them down the silk-covered sides of the Doctor’s torso. Then he draped a palm over the Doctor’s cock—all warmth and the bare suggestion of sensation—and slowly increased the pressure. The Doctor breathed a little more weakly. The touch of hypnotic compulsion in the Master’s gaze prevented him from looking down, or away, or at anything but the Master. The Doctor hadn’t anticipated that the Master could still do that, or would have anything like this level of control over himself. “But hardly _only_ afraid,” the Master pronounced.

The Master shoved the Doctor back against the door to his own bedroom. The motion was so sudden that the Doctor couldn’t really act to prevent it, though he turned his head this way and that for a wild, absent moment, as if seeking an exit. In so doing, the Doctor noticed the deep claw marks in the wood next to his head.

What he definitely _should_ have been able to prevent was the way he tilted his own neck to one side (as if he didn’t know better!) and mewled pathetically when the Master embedded those wicked, long teeth of his in the Doctor’s pale neck.

“Ngh,” the Doctor protested just as soon as he had his breath back. The Master was leaning back, just smirking at him and licking the blood off his lips, the Doctor’s _blood_ off his fucking _lips_ , “Master listen to me, this is a terrible—”

The Master’s hand was back on the Doctor’s fabric-covered cock in an instant, grinding hard. He forced his tongue into the Doctor’s mouth. The Doctor could taste the iron-salt tang of his own blood, and he whimpered into what had become a kiss.

The Master drew back. “Put your hand on the door knob,” the Master instructed. His eyes were black and dangerous, and he put a hand to the Doctor’s throat as if he’d wring it. Swallowing, terrified and aroused, the Doctor did as he was told. It seemed he’d been outmaneuvered. “Turn it,” the Master hissed, and then they were falling back into the Doctor’s bedroom. The door slammed shut behind them, and with a growl and a light movement—did the virus give the Master preternatural strength as well? the Doctor barely had time to wonder—he was on his own bed, and the Master was on him, pushing off the gown easily, ripping at his more complicated pyjamas (it was fine, the Doctor consoled himself, he had several matching pairs), shredding them with fingernails that slit lightly into the Doctor’s skin when they rent the fabric. The Doctor buried his fingers in the Master’s hair and tugged almost hard enough to rip it out when the Master bent a cat-rough tongue to the scratches he’d just created, tending to them and teasing the blood out of them.

And then he was on his stomach, the Master growing into his neck, into his ear, positioning him.

“Wait,” the Doctor started, and the Master’s chuckle rumbled behind him at such a ridiculous request. “Wait wait wait _wait_ , Master. You must be joking! Would you stop kneading me for a minute--look, I absolutely insist on having _something_ —”

The Master stilled for an instant. He seemed to consider the question and to find in the Doctor’s favor. “Beg,” he pronounced.

“What?” the Doctor half-laughed.

The Master tightened a hand on the Doctor’s ass. “Beg me to use something,” the Master clarified. His smile deepened at the corners. “Beg me to take you.”

“You can’t possibly be serious,” the Doctor scoffed. “What are you going to do, give me up as a bad job if I won’t?”

“Oh, I’m not leaving,” the Master allowed. “But whether this is an easy experience for you is another question entirely.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes, even though his face was pushed into a pillow and thus the gesture was entirely wasted on the Master. He had a sudden inkling that the Master had always intended to prepare him properly, and that he had been manipulated into his present position. They both knew he could stop the Master if it really came to it, and that if the Master was sane enough to speak in full sentences, he retained enough of himself to stop, if the Doctor properly meant it.

They also both knew the Doctor actually _did_ want to have sex with him--even if one of them was using superior olfactory senses to shore up that conviction (which was surely cheating). He just didn’t want to want it because it was an awful idea, and because the Master was both a hot mess at the moment and being especially irritating. (He certainly wasn’t worried about consent--presumably to head off any inconvenient scruples, the Master had given him enthusiastic, absolute, pan-generational, pan-altered state blanket permission ages ago, when his bemused and flustered fifth regeneration notably had _not_ asked for it.) The Doctor had never been one to let the Master’s various pomposities go without comment (though some, notably the Master, might say that _he_ was one to talk).

“Then _please_ , oh great and powerful Master,” the Doctor said mockingly.

The Master softly ran his claws up and down the Doctor’s back, tracing over his spine, making him shiver. “Please what?”

The Doctor swallowed hard, and the build of threat and desire made his voice lower, unexpectedly sincere. “Please. Let me have something.”

The Master, toying with him as he would caught prey, batted at the Doctor’s curls absently. Then he heaved the Doctor’s hips up so his arse was in the air (with seemingly little effort, the Doctor was alarmed to note--that was the virus talking, the Master wouldn’t normally have had either the physical strength or the apparent need to manipulate him into a position of lordosis), curled his hand around the Doctor’s cock, and spent a minute stroking it. “That’s not quite it, is it Doctor?”

“Please take me,” the Doctor breathed shakily into his own arms, where he’d buried his head. “Master.”

“There.” The Doctor felt a sharp claw tracing under his chin, forcing it up. The Master moved, coming along the Doctor’s side for a moment, and his yellow eyes met the Doctor’s with considerable feline satisfaction. Whatever he found there must have satisfied him, because the Master shifted back again, and the Doctor yelped as he was forced open. Apparently the Master had taken the time while the Doctor’s eyes were closed to slick his fingers with oil. He seemed very happy to finger the Doctor for a minute or two (surprisingly careful of his wicked claws), but lengthy preparation wasn’t to be part of the bargain.

Once he’d properly started, the Master pounded into the Doctor with a hissing, spitting frenzy. His hand on the Doctor’s cock—the strength of his grip, the too-near promise of those claws--was a thing of ecstasy and terror. The Master seemed to crave the pheromone-proof of the Doctor’s fear and desire like a drug. He took all the skin he could reach in long licks, nipping and biting, leaving evidence everywhere. His hands, the Doctor was sure, were leaving him-shaped bruises in the Doctor’s hips. They both came, and the Doctor assumed that would be the end of it, at least for the moment. Instead the Master simply flipped the Doctor up into a different position and let the Doctor discover that recovery time was something of a non-issue for those infected with the Cheetah virus. Only the bloody Master, he thought, dazed.

“Mine,” the Master hissed, thrusts driving the Doctor back up the bed (only to bang his head on the headboard for the second time that night). The Master devoured the Doctor’s mouth before coming back up. “Say it.” The Master had always been unusually possessive, but the virus appeared to have fused the character trait with a biological imperative.

The Doctor, twitching under him like a live wire, refused to give the Master that. The Doctor had trouble thinking cogently during sex at the best of times, but for once he had sense enough to moan rather than actually answer back. He’d never hear the end of it, for one, and anyway, who was in charge, here? Whose TARDIS was this, again? He bit his lip, unresponsive, and then gave a scream when the Master scored long, blood-dripping lines along his white thighs with those vicious claws. The Master latched onto his jugular, and the Doctor squirmed in panic, grasping that the Master would just have to bite down to end this new regeneration right now. Instead the Master just left a distinct ring of teeth marks, and licked words into the Doctor’s ear.

“Say it.” It was a dirty cheat. The hard spike of arousal that had taken him with the panic had rendered consideration and objection both unthinkable. As had probably been the Master’s intention.

“Yours.” The Doctor, once again very close, brought his arms up to the Master’s shoulders. He pushed the Master away and pressed the Master down into him in confused, alternating impulses, feeling gone, feeling blissful, feeling lost. Feeling like he didn’t even belong to himself.

By the time the Master was done with him he was coiled in an aching, boneless heap. The Doctor was too exhausted to do more the whimper when the Master scooted the Doctor’s head into his lap. The Master felt unusually psychically _present_ (not to mention unusually animalistic and mad, even for him), but the Doctor put it down to a post-sex relaxation of their mental barriers. Besides, it was far too pleasant to object to. Rather spent himself, and radiating smug self-satisfaction, the Master took up playing with the Doctor’s chestnut curls again.

“Mine,” he repeated idly, tracing one of the bites on the Doctor’s exposed jugular with proprietary fingers. In his post-sex high, as at all times when the Master didn’t struggle for coherence with all of his awareness, the Cheetah portion of his brain reduced his complex thoughts to elementary simplicity. The Doctor nuzzled into his thigh, making a soft, weak keening noise. A difficult mate, the Master allowed, but an exquisite one.

It would be such fun to watch him figure out the biological and psychic side-effects of the mate-claiming process they’d just undergone. The sane portion of his mind had originally wanted to lure the Doctor to the Cheetah planet in order to escape, but the infected element had readily consented to the plan for reasons of its own. He’d failed on both counts the first time around, but had now reversed both setbacks. Better late than never.

This, the Doctor thought, was going to be a long recovery process.  



End file.
